


Can I Be Your Prisoner?

by LustOnMyFingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, CFNM, Crack, Domination, Dragonstone, F/M, Femdom, Flirting, Hand Jobs, Jonerys, Jonerys Week, Kink, Oral Sex, Out of Character, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reverse Face-fucking (Is that a thing? Well it is now!), Sexual Tension, Silly Innuendo, Smut, Spanking, Submission, Teasing, dom!Dany, sub!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 20:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16070396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers
Summary: Following their first tense meeting on Dragonstone, Jon is left stimulated in more ways than one when he asks the dragon queen whether or not he's her prisoner. After Daenerys clarifies by answering "Not yet", three dreaded words slip from his lips, to his horror—"Can I be?"





	Can I Be Your Prisoner?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheScarletGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden/gifts), [geekyfeminist_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyfeminist_love/gifts), [lilgulie5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilgulie5/gifts).



> Written originally (and tirelessly) for [Jonerys Week: September 2018](http://iceandfiresource.tumblr.com/post/176894300041/jonerys-monthly-events-september-2018-jonerys) over on Tumblr, I chose the "Crack" prompt (buuut I'm a day late, so uh, "Free Choice", I suppose!)
> 
> And now, a little foreward: This fic... what a thorn in my side. Just after I was prompted by three lovely ladies, the ridiculous 'theory' that Jon is actively Dany's sex slave started getting passed around Tumblr and I felt too insecure about potentially fanning those flames. After seeing the handiwork of [Daenerys1417](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daenerys1417) and how she leaned so hard into her [brilliant gigolo fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15389898), I figured I'd follow her lead and finally, _finally_ fill this prompt, requested by three of my favorite people ever: [Scarlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden/), [Geeky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyfeminist_love) and [Katie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilgulie5/). ♥
> 
> That said - this is a smut fic, a kink fic, it's OOC, ridiculous, over the top. It's CRACK! Take it for what it is and enjoy it (or don't, that's up to you). Again, the pen name here is "LustOnMyFingers". Always, _always_ bear that in mind when it comes to my fics and what to expect, lol.
> 
> Apologies that the beginning of this fic will be a slight re-tread of the scene in the throne room - I assure you it was necessary to build appropriate tension. Other similar scenes will happen, but there will be twists in dialogue to make them unique and to better fit the theme.

"If it doesn't matter, then you might as well kneel. Swear your allegiance to Queen Daenerys. Help her to defeat my sister," Tyrion Lannister pleaded. "And together, our armies will protect the North."

 

"There's no time for that," Jon insisted, waving his hands in annoyance. "There's no time for _any_ of this! While we stand here debating-"

 

"It takes no time to bend the knee," the small man interrupted. "Pledge your sword to her cause."

 

Jon's whipped his head to face him. "And why would I do that?"

 

As his voice echoed throughout the cavernous room, he turned to Daenerys, almost breaking his vow _not_ to get distracted by her beauty as his face twisted in frustration, this entire meeting grating his nerves.

 

"I mean no offense, _Your Grace_ , but I don't know you."

 

The queen held his gaze, unflinching.

 

"As far as I can tell, your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father's name, and my own father fought to overthrow the Mad King. The Lords of the North placed their trust in me to lead them, and I will continue to do so as well as I can."

 

"That's fair," she finally concluded, after enduring the whole of his outburst. "It's _also_ fair to point out that I'm the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms. By declaring yourself King of the northernmost kingdom, you are in open rebellion."

 

Refusing to show even a hint of agitation, the queen kept her cool. Jon gulped, refusing to blink as he stared into her eyes. Daenerys Targaryen was threatening war—the very last thing his people needed—the very last thing he wanted, himself.

 

Before either could break the wordless trance, a series of quick footfalls broke the tension. Jon turned to see a bald man rushing into the room, passing by him and Davos as he leaned into the queen's ear, whispering something unintelligible, so far as Jon could tell.

 

After shifting his attention back to the queen, he freely stole glances of that impossibly lovely face as she cast her gaze down, his eyes fixating a bit too long on her lips. He'd seen plenty of pretty girls before, but something about Daenerys Targaryen's beauty outright disarmed him, leaving him defenseless. Someone should've warned him of it, though he wondered if it would've helped at all.

 

"You must forgive my manners," she began, briefly catching Jon's lingering stare.  "You'll both be tired after your long journey. We'll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms."

 

She turned then, giving just the slightest hint of her body's curves as she ordered her guards in a tongue Jon couldn't understand. Examining her, he wondered just how far he'd dug himself into a hole as she climbed the steps before her throne. Jon's mind wandered as he studied her every detail. At the back of her head, she wore elaborate braids like a coiled snake—long, silky waves swished beneath them with every step she took away from him.

 

"Am I your prisoner?" he blurted.

 

The queen stopped in her tracks. Once the question left his lips, his mind flooded with unwelcome images of the slight and silver-haired woman standing before his restrained body with that same cold glare, bending him to her will through whatever means necessary. _Gods help him_.

 

Jon clenched his fists at his sides as he awaited her answer. With her hands folded over her stomach, Daenerys faced him, the tension between them almost physical in its manifestation.

 

"Not yet."

 

Just as she turned, Jon felt a surge of sick anticipation at the mere thought of it...

 

"Can I be?"

 

The queen had made it just one step forward before coming to another halt.

 

_...Fuck._

 

When the familiar edge of Ser Davos' stare carved into him, he knew for certain. He said it. He actually said it aloud. Jon turned to see his Hand wearing a sudden look of poorly-masked horror. When he felt a second set of eyes upon him, he followed it to Lord Tyrion. The dwarf palmed his mortified expression, seeming at a loss for words. For once.

 

Judging by his staggered breaths, it must've been only seconds before the queen turned to him again—though to Jon, it felt like a _lifetime_.

 

"I beg your pardon, my lord?"

 

Though her eyes narrowed, something about her expression had softened, even a brow had quirked ever-so-slightly at her inquiry. _Wishful thinking_ , Jon reminded himself, doing his best not to let his eyes drop from hers. Something in her look stunned him further into silence.

 

Ser Davos cleared his throat. "Many thanks, Your Grace."

 

Fixing his gaze forward, Jon fought the urge to hang his head in shame. While holding eye contact with the dragon queen, he wondered for a moment how many other fools stood before her just as he had, likewise letting lewd thoughts slip from their mind to their lips with little to no consideration. Inwardly, he cringed at his carelessness, yet he vowed never to cower before her. _That's what she wants_ , he reminded himself.

 

After enduring the scrutiny a moment longer, Jon sighed in relief as Daenerys finally nodded, her eyes drifting from his, traveling over his body as if assessing it. _In your dreams_ , he reminded himself as he turned on his heel. Keeping his fists balled at his side, Jon stomped out of the throne room. No longer would he indulge in that momentary wish—to fulfill some twisted fantasy wherein the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on carried out the threat to, _what_ , exactly? Chain him up in her dungeon? _Absurd_ , he chided himself, trying his best to shake away these ridiculous ideas that came from seemingly nowhere and had already consumed him.

 

It was only after they passed through two corridors that Davos decided to confront him.

 

"What in _seven hells_ were you think-"

 

"I don't know," Jon cut him off.

 

"You're _King_ in the North," the man reminded him in a hushed, yet stern tone as they closely followed behind a pair of Dothraki men wielding curved blades.

 

"I haven't forgotten."

 

"Sure could've fooled me back there!"

 

" _I know_ ," he griped.

 

"You saw the dragons outside, same as me, and you _still_ thought to say-"

 

"I didn't."

 

"Didn't?" he scoffed. "I heard you with my own two-"

 

" _Think_ ," he interrupted to clarify. "I didn't think."

 

"You haven't pursued a _single_ woman since you-," he paused to look around, " _Woke up_. And boy, it's not like they haven't tried to get you to."

 

Jon heaved a frustrated sigh.

 

"I thought maybe after wakin' up from the dea-," Jon interrupted Davos with a glare. "Well, I thought maybe you couldn't-"

 

"I _can_."

 

"Is that so?" he asked, "Couldn't have saved us both some humiliation by stoppin' at a brothel in the winter town, or, _hells_ , White Harbor?"

 

"I have no interest in that."

 

" _Oh_ ," he scoffed. "But you're plenty interested in bein' _taken prisoner_ by the _Mother of Dragons_ , are you?"

 

" _Davos_ ," Jon warned.

 

"She's a _queen_ , if you need remindin', you can't just say whatever stupid words you've got tumblin' around that thick head of yours whenev-"

 

"I know that!" he shouted.

 

The men escorting them turned, angling their weapons to threaten the sharp edge of their blades. Davos cleared his throat again, gesturing for them to continue along their path with a smile.

 

"It won't happen again," Jon said under his breath.

 

The pair spent the rest of their walk in silence as they followed the foreigners to their lodgings.

 

That night, Jon only nibbled at his supper as he considered his mistake, and how much it might've cost not only him, but the entire north. There must be a way to salvage it, he convinced himself, poring through his mind for a hint or a clue. For some reason, a familiar laughter resounded in his head—the laughter someone who would get an utter kick out of his slip-up, never letting him live it down. Tormund Giantsbane.

 

 _That's it_ , he realized, struck with a sudden epiphany. Now he knew exactly how to ease himself into the queen's good graces.

 

.  .  .

 

The next morning, Lord Tyrion found Jon by the cliffs, eyes fixed on the sea stretched out before them. Like Davos, he came equipped with a lecture to watch his mouth, but assured him the queen hadn't said a word about his unfortunate slip-up, nor had she seemed offended. Jon felt the knots in his stomach untying one by one at the news. The dwarf had his fun, then—contemplating how long he might have to go without a woman's touch before making an utter ass of himself in front of the most powerful woman in the whole world. Finally, he concluded it simply wouldn't be worth finding out.

 

Jon let him take his jabs, even smirking at a few of them. Nothing could bring him down after finding out that Daenerys hadn't heard him. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

 

The conversation naturally drifted to the Night's Watch, the very thing Tyrion assumed left Jon in a state troubled enough to actually _ask_ to be taken prisoner. At length, Jon explained the things he saw at Hardhome, how the men he'd just met had risen from the dead minutes after falling. The still-warm, mutilated bodies rising to their feet with eyes like blue ice.

 

Finally, Tyrion seemed to relent, caring at least enough to ask what might stop them.

 

 _'Dragonglass. And it so happens that we're standing on a mountain of it,'_ Jon had said.

 

Before leaving the bastard alone to further brood, he assured Jon he'd finesse Daenerys to the best of his ability, to help ease whatever tension still lingered between the monarchs. The alliance may not mean as much to the queen as hers did to him, but perhaps gaining goodwill with the largest kingdom in the realm was an enticing enough offer in exchange for some glass.

 

Hours later, Tyrion found him again, still roaming the cliffside with little else to do on the dreaded island. Though he offered no word on whether Daenerys had yielded her glass to Jon, he did direct him back to the winding path that let to and from the castle, hinting that it provided great views of the three winged giants under the queen's control. Just when Jon thought to argue the suggestion—to tell Tyrion there was no time for that—he was met with a knowing eye-roll and a gesture to carry on.

 

At the top of the stone steps, Jon took in the breathtaking view. The dark silhouettes of three impossible beasts flew, beating their wings against the sky—the patchwork of luminescent clouds a veil to the setting sun.

 

And there she was below, every bit as mythic as the dragons above her.

 

It was now or never.

 

"Your boy there almost took my head clear off when he flew over me yesterday," he proclaimed, pointing at the largest of the three. "Might've saved you a load of hassle had he succeeded."

 

The queen turned to face him with a smirk. Intolerably, she was more captivating in the soft light of the dying sun, and somehow, he found himself even _more_ taken with her beauty.

 

Try as he might, Jon couldn't help his eyes from curving along the newly-revealed contours of her body. This time, she wore no cape to disguise them, leaving an arm at her side and the other resting against the wall beside her—her body language conveying she was more open to receiving his company.

 

"Perhaps he needs better training, yet."

 

The curve of her smirk deepened with her jest. Paired with her comment, it was enough to crack the carefully constructed dam he'd spent the last day building in his mind. In an instant, the same wicked thoughts came trickling back in. Though his mouth was dry, Jon swallowed as he took a final step toward her.

 

"You _train_ them?"

 

"Sure," she simply said—as if training dragons _could_ be simple. "They're mostly obedient, though sometimes they can be stubborn, I admit."

 

"How, exactly, do you do it?"

 

"Sometimes all it takes is a command to obtain their submission."

 

Jon clenched his fists to keep his hands from trembling. _Don't think it_ , he reminded himself.

 

"Other times," she continued, "An instrument is necessary to achieve the desired results."

 

"Such as?"

 

"Whips work well, I've found."

 

 _Whips?_ Jon considered, clearing his throat. "That's too bad."

 

"Feeling pity for my dragons, are you, my lord?"

 

 _Pity? Try envy_. Jon pursed his lips together to make sure the thought stayed where it belonged, this time—in his head.

 

"It's too bad you can't bend Cersei Lannister to your will with the crack of a whip."

 

"Yes..." her chest heaved with her breath as her eyes dragged over him. " _Cersei_."

 

After another exaggerated sigh, the queen continued, "You know I'm not going to let her stay on the iron throne."

 

"I never expected that you would."

 

"And I haven't changed my mind about which kingdoms belong to that throne?"

 

"I haven't, either."

 

They held each other's gazes stubbornly, then. _Don't cower_ , his mind chanted, until _finally_ , she looked away first.

 

"I will allow you to mine the dragonglass and forge weapons from it," she relented. "Any resources or men you need, I will provide for you."

 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jon felt a small rush of victory wash over him. _I've done it_ , he thought. Successfully, he had managed to navigate himself back onto the path of diplomacy despite his previous blunder.

 

"Thank you," he breathlessly said.

 

Daenerys turned away from him and back toward the sea. Just as he moved to depart, he felt an inexplicable pull toward her he couldn't resist—his body stubbornly clinging to this rare moment alone with the dragon queen.

 

"So you believe me then, about the Night King and the Army of the Dead?"

 

Unflinching, she considered his question, the silence between them filled with the chatter of gulls and the distant crashing of the sea's waves.

 

"You'd better get to work, Jon Snow."

 

Though he hesitated there a moment, she stayed fixed toward the water. After a nod, his feet finally dragged him away. Perhaps setting to work in the queen's caves might alleviate some of the senseless sexual frustration he'd developed. Only time would tell.

 

.  .  .

 

Jon didn't see Daenerys much in the following days, taking her last command quite seriously as he toiled away in the mines hour after hour. As luck would have it, though, he discovered something worthy enough of luring the queen back into his company, something that might even help prove that his concerns are genuine.

 

Just as he approached the castle to greet her, she was headed down to the beach where he'd stood. Above him, she walked alongside Missandei with a small horde of Dothraki guards at their backs, her image slightly blurred by the fog that had rolled over the island.

 

"Your Grace," he called, successfully catching her attention.

 

Upon his interruption, she gave her friend a curious sort of look, one that sent a shiver down his spine. After she called off her men, Jon felt relieved to know she trusted him enough to decline the extra protection. There had even been a small surge of anticipation that he might finally catch Daenerys alone again. Pulling the thoughts by root before they even had a chance to sprout, he channeled his attentions into his kingly duties, instead.

 

Once inside, Ser Davos hung back, striking up a conversation with Missandei, leaving Jon and Daenerys free to explore the humid cave system unattended. Jon entered the narrow passageway, the dew clinging to the walls collecting on his bare fingers as he guided Daenerys through. Tightly, he held his torch as he dipped it into a nearby brazier to borrow more flame.

 

"This is it," he proudly proclaimed, twisting to face the queen. "All we'll ever need."

 

With eyes somewhat glazed, the queen's awestruck gaze darted around the cave. The shimmer of the dragonglass above seemed to illuminate soft sheen of sweat that had gathered above her brow.

 

"There is something else I want to show you, Your Grace," he whispered.

 

Daenerys brushed fingers with Jon as she took his torch into her fist. She held it firmly as they made their way deeper inside, each of her heavy breaths echoing in the small space.

 

Finally, their little adventure together had reached its climax. Just above them was a strange ring etched into the wall. Inside it and spilling over its edges was a swirl of what looked like small seeds.

 

Jon knew this symbol could only mean one thing— _children_. The Children of the Forest, to be exact. He guided Daenerys further through again, the strange symbols growing in size and complexity until they came upon etchings of men—eight in total.

 

"The Children and the First Men."

 

"Were they enemies?"

 

Lightly, Jon took her by the wrist. At his touch, she raised her brows in shock—yet made no move to correct the bold behavior. And so, he guided her to the etching he wanted most to show her.

 

"Once," he finally breathed. "But then they joined together. To fight _them_ ," he gestured toward the ancient carvings of blue-eyed monsters. "The true enemy."

 

For a moment, the queen studied them before casting her eyes upon Jon.

 

"To defeat them, you need my armies and my dragons."

 

"Yes," he admitted.

 

Holding his gaze, she inched forward. A familiar tension nestled deep in Jon's belly, again. Nervously, he shifted on his feet as her eyes bore into him.

 

"Heed my command, Jon Snow," she finally said. "And you shall have _whatever_ it is you need."

 

He cocked his head curiously. _What?_

 

"Bend the knee," she breathed. "Pledge your sword to me."

 

Jon followed her gaze as it dropped to his swordbelt. His eyes flicked to Longclaw, then, or where Longclaw _would've_ been, had she not made him surrender the weapon days ago. _She couldn't possibly mean..._ that _, could she?_ A sudden heat crept into his cheeks. And before he could indulge such an obscene thought, the queen brushed past him. Obediently, he trailed behind her, finally withdrawing from the cave after a long, hard, exhaustive day.

 

.  .  .

 

Each day since the queen's departure, Jon returned to the cliffside. This time, though, he lingered along the edge that faced King's Landing, trying his best to look as though he _weren't_ impatiently awaiting her arrival—though it's not likely he fooled anyone into thinking otherwise.

 

Overhead, she flew, returning home on dragonback ahead of her armies. Coming face to face with Drogon was one of the most incredible moments of Jon's life. It was only then he realized the true scope of power Daenerys had harnessed, and it was enough to make him tremble. The ease with which she dismounted the beast—easily dozens of times larger than her small figure—both intrigued and impressed him.

 

And just when he'd managed to lighten her mood, to make her laugh as they walked together toward the castle—an old friend's return interrupted their journey. And of all the people in the world, it was the late Commander Mormont's son. The way the man effortlessly fell before the queen's feet made Jon's blood boil, and he found himself quickly wishing he could do the same, as if it were some sort of competition for her affections.

 

For the rest of the night, Jon couldn't help but glare at Jorah Mormont every chance he could sneak it. Daenerys had softened so much at the man's return, even embracing him. The thought of her arms wrapped around another man nauseated him, particularly because he had yet to feel her small body pressed against his in the same way.

 

It was that same sick feeling that led Jon to ignore the food on his plate at supper. Rather, he indulged in the foreign wines brought out in celebration of the queen's victory over the Lannister army. Not even halfway through the meal, he felt the alcohol's effects—a warm tingle thrumming throughout his body, weaving its way through his vision.

 

It was the perfect state to channel his foul-mouthed free folk friend, Tormund, finally following through with his vow to make it at least _appear_ as though he was prone to interjecting inappropriate things at the wrong times, just the way he'd done at the end of his first meeting with Daenerys. After all, he had nothing to lose.

 

For every joke to tumble from Tyrion's lips, Jon affixed his own bawdy comments, finding them easier to come by the more his inhibitions dulled. As the night wore on, the guests filtered out, one by one. Daenerys and Jon moved closer to one another, claiming empty seats as they became available.

 

The pair talked and laughed well into the night. Daenerys rewarded Jon with the occasional touch to his arm, his hand, even his knee. After so long, they were the only two left in the hall. The wine had dried up, as had their words. With just a single glance from the queen, Jon knew he wouldn't be retiring to his room alone.

 

.  .  .

 

The next morning, Jon woke to a pounding headache and a warm body in his bed beside him. A cold chill of panic swept through him as he found himself unable to recall who, exactly, it might be. After inching the covers down, he saw a few threads of silver hair peeking out around the fur. There was only one woman on the whole of Dragonstone with hair that color, he knew. He breathed a sigh of relief.

 

That is, until another flood of panic coursed through him. He couldn't remember _any_ of it. Searching the corners of his throbbing mind, he'd managed to locate his last memory—a squall of clothing that swept over his head, over hers. A lithe figure mounted above him, capturing his lips and dousing him in the sweet smell of spices. Rubbing his forehead, he tried his damnedest to remember what had followed, then—but there was nothing. Just blackness.

 

Dread coiled its way through his gut as he took a peek beneath his covering, confirming he'd had on nothing at all, not a single stitch. Jon could only take a guess as to whether or not he'd managed to actually pleasure Daenerys in his drunken, lustful stupor, or whether he'd fucked up and finished too soon.

 

The queen stirred beside him as he licked his lips, hoping to find the distinctive taste with his tongue. _Oh, thank the gods_ , he thought, savoring just a hint of that familiar, sweet tanginess. He might not have anything to worry about at all if he at least managed to get his head between her legs. After all, he'd thought about it _at length_ , so much so that he must've done at least a fair job, even while intoxicated.

 

Each small relief, though, seemed to come paired with a panic. _Did I spill inside her?_ he wondered, then, running his fingers over his stomach, hoping to find a sticky spot somewhere, yet coming up short. Daenerys stirred again, this time slipping out from the coverings.

 

Suddenly afraid to face the queen, Jon clenched his eyes shut pretending to be asleep as he listened to her feet pad across his floor. It took only a few moments for Daenerys to dress, though Jon didn't dare peek. The soft click of his door returning to its frame signaled that it was okay to finally release the breath he'd held captive in his lungs.

 

_What have I done?_

 

.  .  .

 

Taking his walk of shame that morning, Jon turned up late to break his fast with the others in the great hall. Already, he could tell Ser Davos had a dozen questions or more, but thankfully, he refrained from asking any of them in front of the others. Notably absent from the meal were Jorah Mormont and, _unfortunately_ , Daenerys. Jon's stomach lurched, wondering whether or not they were off somewhere, together.

 

"Where's the queen?" he asked Tyrion, seated across from him.

 

"Her office, I assume, my lord."

 

"Is she upset?"

 

"Don't know. Haven't seen her," he quickly said between bites of ham steak and eggs.

 

"I need to speak with her," he insisted. " _At once_."

 

With a sigh, the queen's Hand gave him vague instructions, along with a warning—if she happens to ask, Lord Tyrion is _not_ the one who divulged the location. Easy enough.

 

The walk was a long one that took some backtracking to get right. To Jon, Dragonstone was labyrinthine and quite hard to navigate. Already, he wondered if he'd be able to find his way back to the great hall, or even to his chambers.

 

Finally, he came upon a yellow light resting like a rug at the foot of an open door. Inside, he could hear two voices. Daenerys. Jorah. Standing there, he couldn't help but listen in.

 

"-not sure his intentions can be trusted, Your Grace. Perhaps you should reconsider your offer, at least until he promises something of value in return."

 

Daenerys sighed.

 

"I appreciate your counsel, Ser, as I always have. But _this_ I didn't miss."

 

" _This?_ "

 

"The way you warn me against every man who would so much as look upon me."

 

"Your Gr-"

 

"Jon Snow can have the bloody glass," she interrupted with a thud—a fist against her desk, Jon guessed. "I've already permitted him to use my caves as he sees fit. I don't plan to revoke that privilege because it makes you _uncomfortable_. I'll not hear another word of it. The decision has been made. It is _final_."

 

Jon stepped into the doorway, locking eyes with Mormont, who stood faithfully by the queen's side. Impossible to miss were the four Dothraki guards flanking the pair.

 

Daenerys looked up from her deskwork, genuinely surprised to see Jon standing there. "My lord?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"

 

"I need to speak with you, Daenerys."

 

The queen flashed a quick grin before setting her quill aside. She rose to her feet, clasping her hands in front of her stomach as she bridged the short distance between them. Any trace of the carefree girl he'd dined with the previous night had long since fled from her—she was stone cold.

 

" _Daenerys?_ " she spat her own name back to him as Jorah folded his arms behind her. "You are _too_ familiar, my lord. I'm afraid the comforts I've extended to you have gone to your head. You _will_ use my proper titles."

 

"You _can't_ be serious," he pleaded. _Too familiar?_ She spent the night in his bed. _How much more familiar can two people get?_ he wondered.

 

"I am."

 

"Daenerys, _please_."

 

Ignoring him, she tilted her head to the side. "Qoras mae."

 

"What does that mean?"

 

"It _means_ ," Jorah paused, smirking in satisfaction, "Seize him."

 

.  .  .

 

There was no way of telling how many hours had passed since Jon was thrown into a cell. His stomach was rumbling after having gone nearly an entire day without any food. And he was thirsty— _gods_ , so thirsty. All he could do to pass the time was sleep, yet he wasn't even given a cot—just a hard stone floor. To make matters worse, they'd taken his gorget and gambeson, leaving him in just his a tunic and trousers. Already, he felt utterly humiliated.

 

As he massaged the pains from his neck and shoulders, Jon wondered how on earth he'd get out of this mess, and why Ser Davos hadn't visited, or at least argued on his behalf. Just as he thought he might go mad from waiting, he heard footsteps finally approaching.

 

Jon didn't even bother looking up. Not until Daenerys cleared her throat.

 

"Da-," he stopped himself. " _Your Grace_."

 

When he lifted his head to meet her eyes, he was irritated to find she was the most beautiful he'd ever seen her. She wore a long dark dress of silk, high-necked and freely flowing from the waist down. Silver mane thick and unbound, her soft waves spilled over her shoulders and chest. Under her arm, she held a small leather satchel.

 

"Better," she said flatly.

 

After unlocking the door to his cell, she stepped inside. From within the bag, she produced a waterskin, holding it out in an offering. Crawling toward her, Jon reached out to grasp it before slumping back against the stone wall.

 

"Well, aren't you pitiful."

 

" _Excuse me?_ " he asked defiantly. "Pitiful? I haven't had a damned thing to drink all day. Or eat. I'm starved. This is no way to treat a man, prisoner or not."

 

Daenerys took a step toward him, kicking one of his legs away with her boot. She stepped between his legs and knelt before him, extending her hand to wipe the dribble from his chin.

 

"Hasn't anyone ever told you to be careful what you wish for, my lord?"

 

Jon tilted his head away from her touch.

 

"Is that how it's going to be?"

 

"I don't know what you mean," he scoffed. "But I'd like to eat."

 

"You'll eat soon. Be patient."

 

" _Patient?_ I've been here all day."

 

"You've been here a few hours," she corrected him. "Already, you're a terrible prisoner."

 

"I don't have time for this, Daenerys. Please. Let me out."

 

The queen nodded absently. "I hope you enjoyed that, Jon."

 

"Enjoyed what?"

 

"That is the last time I will allow you to say my name."

 

"Or else what?"

 

"Say it again," she warned, taking him by the chin. "And I'll have no choice but to punish you."

 

Insolent, he hissed her name. " _Daenerys_."

 

" _Up_ ," she seethed, her violet eyes widening in shock. In seconds, she was back on her feet.

 

Jon hesitated, rubbing his jaw where she'd squeezed it hard.

 

" _Stand up!_ " her voice rang throughout the otherwise empty dungeon.

 

This time, Jon clambered to his feet. _What in seven hells?_

 

"Grab the bars."

 

Slowly, Jon stepped toward the iron barricade, carefully grasping the tarnished rods, sheepishly glancing at the queen from over his shoulder.

 

"Bend and spread your legs."

 

Without further hesitation, he shyly followed her instruction, unsure whether to feel excited or like the idiot he was. He heard the crack of her slap against his backside before the pain settled into his cheek, burning him.

 

After sucking a sharp breath between gritted teeth, Jon held onto the bars, feeling lightheaded after the sudden surge of blood rushed straight to his groin. The queen's hand lingered on his ass, rubbing the sensation away.

 

She delivered a second swat, one with enough force to make him lose his footing. The pain detracted nothing from his arousal whatsoever. Already, he was tempted to say her name _again_ , but before he could cross her, she barked another order, pointing to the ground, this time.

 

"Sit. I want your back against the bars."

 

As he got into position, Daenerys pulled a coil of rope from the bag before casting it aside.

 

"Hands behind your head."

 

Wordlessly, he complied as she knelt, wrapping his wrists before tightly binding them to the bars. Already his fingers felt tingly as they slowly went numb. After giving the rope a good tug to make sure he was secure, she pulled a small shiv from her boot.

 

" _Your Grace_ -"

 

Ignoring him, she went straight for the hem of his tunic, first puncturing the fabric before drawing the blade up until the garment was completely split down the middle. Jon's heart raced so fast he began to shake. His scars were on full display now, but Daenerys didn't flinch. Rather, she pressed a warm palm to his heart before leaning into his neck, placing a quick kiss below his ear. " _It's all right_ ," she assured him with a whisper.

 

Daenerys set the small knife aside before returning to her feet. First, she slipped out of her boots. Drawing her skirt up, she revealed a pair of tight leather trousers beneath. Jon watched curiously as she unlaced and peeled them from her legs, her skirt falling before he could even glimpse an inch of her pale skin.

 

Powerless, all Jon could do is struggle against his bindings as Daenerys calculated her next move.

 

"I hope you're still hungry."

 

He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Every muscle in Jon's body tightened at once.

 

Planting a foot on either side of his hips, she started to slowly lift her skirt. With only a thin veil of fabric between his skin and hers, the scent of her arousal made his head go swirling.

 

"If you want it, open your mouth."

 

Without hesitation, his jaw fell open as she bared her cunt to him. Already, it was soaked and swollen, wreathed by thin silver wisps. His tongue quivered at the sight. Jon strained to lean forward, to reach—but she stopped him with a knee, shoving him forcefully back into the bars. Just inches from his face, she began stroking herself, occasionally dipping a finger inside to wet it before running it over his waiting tongue. Eagerly, he accepted every taste she offered. Jon kept his mouth open to show her that he wanted it, just as she had instructed—and he held his jaw in place even as the drool spilled over his lips and hung from his chin.

 

Daenerys tucked a foot against his hip before lifting the other to rest on a horizontal bar above his shoulder. Jon's eyes were so busy following her thighs that he failed to notice the hand slipping straight into his curls, cradling the base of his skull.

 

"Such a pretty mouth," she sweetly remarked, running her free thumb over his bottom lip.

 

They locked eyes as Daenerys lifted her cunt to greet him, pushing his face right into it with both hands. Jon whimpered pitifully against her slick, hot skin, his eyes falling shut as he gratefully sucked her soft flesh. A few times he forgot to breathe, having to fight against the queen's tight grasp to gasp for breath. Graciously, she'd give him a second or two to breathe before pushing his mouth back into its intended target. He strained helplessly against his ropes, aggravated. What he wouldn't give to be able to use his hands to touch her, to pull her closer, to thrust his fingers inside of her—but all he had to work with was his mouth.

 

"Stick your tongue out," she commanded. "Make it stiff."

 

After grinding herself along his face, she managed to work it inside of her. She rode his face like she might his cock, her muscles inside squeezing his tongue. Covetous, his cock twitched beneath his trousers, the sting of her hand lingering on his backside as he shifted uncomfortably on the stone—the pain reminding him of the consequences of disobeying her.

 

To finish herself off, she rubbed against his nose, utilizing his face for her pleasure. Through bleary eyes he spied her as she began to tremble against his mouth, her face twisted in either madness or bliss—he couldn't tell which. The moment she broke away, he was left gasping for air, his saturated skin growing cold in her absence, everything south of his nose sore and aching.

 

On quivering legs, Daenerys collapsed into his lap, her head lying heavy on his shoulder. Breathing into his neck, her hands began to mindlessly wander all over his bare chest—neither ignoring nor paying any special attention to his scars.

 

" _Daenerys_ ," he sighed in relief, his bound hands aching to hold her.

 

Pulling away from him, she glared, shaking her head in disappointment. With a stretch, she retrieved the discarded shiv, bringing it to the ropes to carefully cut them away. Before Jon could properly rub the numbness from his fingers, she began to growl.

 

"Stand up."

 

This time, Jon gripped the bars, using them to aid himself up to his feet—the sight of his beet red hands quite unnerving. Before he could assume the proper position, she helped him out of what remained of his shredded tunic. Half naked, Jon turned, using the barricade for support a second time as he bent forward.

 

However, a spank never came. Instead, the queen ran her hands all along his back, as if chasing the muscles as they danced beneath his skin, unsure whether to avoid her touch or lean into it. Soon, her fingers found the front of his trousers and began to unlace him.

 

Tugging at his waistband, she drew them down—as well as his smallclothes—just below his ass. Jon's face burned from embarrassment. Several seconds passed, the anticipation of the next strike sending a flutter through both his stomach and his heart.

 

Tenderly, she rubbed the sore spot before giving him a light pinch. Just as he took a deep breath to calm himself, she delivered a stinging whack against his cheek. Jon lurched forward, surprised at how much force such a small woman could produce. She rubbed his skin again to soothe him, but he knew the trick, now—that she had only been lulling him into a false sense of security.

 

When no follow-up smack came, Jon turned his head, just in time to see her arm flail as she swatted him, the sharp sting rippling straight through him as he shuddered. Sweetly, Daenerys rubbed his skin to soothe him, even kneeling down to trail kisses over his seared flesh.

 

Afterward, she plopped onto the floor, pulling herself against the wall. On wobbling legs, Jon turned to face her, half hanging out of the front of his trousers. With a gesture, she lured him over, helping to position his legs once he was close enough. Jon let her strip him completely, aiding her only by stepping out of his clothes. Before her, he stood naked and vulnerable as she transitioned onto her knees.

 

Closing his eyes, Jon waited for her to take him into her mouth. Instead, she bent and gave his knee a kiss, following the path up to his thigh. _So close,_ he thought, using the wall behind her to help hold himself up as he watched her work. Skillfully, she dodged his cock as it bobbed just inches from her face, painfully distended and pulsing, just aching for relief. Every time she crept closer, it would jerk with anticipation. The pressure grew almost unbearable as he watched her tease everything around it _over_ and _over_ again, ignoring his cock outright.

 

Finally, she looked up, meeting his eyes.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

If it weren't for the dull ache plaguing him, he might've laughed. Jon didn't provide an answer, and he knew better than to complain. Instead, he simply watched as she settled against the wall behind her, pushing the curtain of silver hair over her shoulders before patting the space in front of her.

 

"Sit," she invited him.

 

Naked as his name day, Jon settled between the queen's legs, his back facing her. When she pulled his body against hers, he could feel her breasts press into his back, her stiff nipples apparent beneath the silk of her bodice.

 

Hooking a leg over each of his thighs, Daenerys spread his legs apart. There was no one around to see, but Jon couldn't help the sense of humiliation he felt being exposed in such a way. A small, soft hand wrapped around his neck, drawing his head back so he could spy nothing but the ceiling above.

 

"Keep your hands away or I will bind them."

 

"Yes, Your Grace," he gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing uncomfortably against her palm.

 

When he planted his hands firmly against the stone to still them, Daenerys _finally_ took his cock into her palm. Agonizingly, she began to stroke it. Slow, _far_ too slow, keeping the pressure light and even. Without thinking, Jon bucked his hips into her, hoping for more friction.

 

"Don't," she warned.

 

With no other choice, he sat still as she stroked him, feeling an uncomfortable pressure both in his testicles and his throat. After several moments, he began to squirm, the tightness all over his body almost too much to bear. It didn't help when her hand left his neck, trailing down to feel his abdomen clench and contract as he drew closer to release, his body heaving with every breath.

 

"If you'd like to finish, you had better ask."

 

For a moment, all Jon could manage was to flush, instinctively jerking his head so his curls would fall over his face. He trembled in her arms, his mind battling his body's climax.

 

" _Ask me_."

 

"M-may I-" he stuttered, taking a necessary pause mid-sentence to gasp as she applied pressure to his shaft, her palm cruelly twisting around him. " _F-finish_..."

 

"No."

 

Daenerys halted all movements as his cock fell like a dead weight against his stomach. Jon, on the other hand, collapsed onto the cold, rigid stone floor—finding the pain of it to be a temporary release from the ache in his groin. Still, he obeyed the queen, keeping his hands off of his body no matter how much it cried out for relief.

 

"I'm tempted to reward you for listening so well," she cooed as she stepped above him, pushing the curls from his eyes, willing him to look at her. With her foot, she nudged him onto his back before gathering her skirt in her fists.

 

"Please," he croaked.

 

She got onto her knees to straddle him, her soft hair sweeping over his chest and shoulders. Straight away, she teased the heat of her cunt just above him. "Ask for mercy."

 

"Please," he begged again, feeling her wetness dripping down him like honey. " _P-please_."

 

It was the only word he could remember how to say.

 

Swiftly, she tucked the head of his cock just inside her scalding cunt, drawing a sob from his lips. For a moment she held him there, unmoving—another sweet form of torture. The queen dragged his arms over his head, keeping his hands confined with hers. Abruptly, she impaled herself fully—the warmth of her slick channel cinched around him, squeezing from root to tip as she drove her weight into him again and again without mercy. Jon's mind reeled as he tried to contain himself.

 

"Let go," she grunted as she rode him, finally releasing his arms.

 

At her permission, tremors took his body as he burst inside of her—his hands snapping to her waist to hold himself steady as he endured each new spasm; pitiful moans broke from his mouth as he thrust into her, emptying every last drop of his seed before collapsing a second time.

 

With a satisfied growl, Daenerys pressed her lips to his. Listless, Jon endured a round of possessive kisses before the panic of reality set in again, scaring him awake.

 

"Oh, no. Dany..." he breathed the name in between kisses.

 

" _Dany?_ " she asked, pulling her mouth away from his. "That's new."

 

He said her name. That meant more punishment, he knew.

 

"I... I don't think I can stand up yet. I'm sorry, Your Grace."

 

"You can call me Dany," she smiled, bringing a hand to his face to stroke it. "What is it, Jon? What's wrong?"

 

"I finished inside of you..."

 

To his dismay, she began to chuckle. "I know, I could feel it, after all..."

 

"Aren't you worried?"

 

Daenerys frowned then, "We talked about this last night."

 

"Did we?"

 

As she lifted herself off of him, his seed came spilling out of her, splashing against the stone floor. Daenerys stood, moving to collect Jon's clothes before returning to his side.

 

"I told you I can't have children, Jon."

 

He couldn't help but frown, then, having already imagined her swollen with his child—however foolish or unlikely it was.

 

"I'm so sorry, Dany."

 

Absently nodding, she gestured for him to sit up before helping him to re-dress. First, she held his tunic up as he slipped his arms through, softly stroking his back before helping him to his feet. It was only after pulling on his smallclothes and trousers that she noticed the troubled expression he wore.

 

"How much did you have to drink last night, Jon?"

 

"A lot," he admitted.

 

Daenerys began to laugh. Quietly, at first. But after another moment, she was in near-hysterics.

 

"Why is that so funny to you?" he frowned again, pulling the shredded tunic together as if to shield himself from her judgment.

 

"I took you _prisoner_ , Jon," she cried with laughter, tears forming in her eyes. "You agreed to this last night. I thought for sure when you came to my office so early, that it was your way of telling me you were ready for your... _arrest_."

 

" _What?_ "

 

After wiping her tears away, she knelt, working out the last of her giggles as she helped him into his boots. "I don't quite remember how it came up, exactly," she confessed. "But I told you that I heard what you said. That you _asked_ to be my prisoner."

 

"Oh _gods_ ," he said, covering his as much of his face with his palm as he could.

 

" _Yes_ ," she laughed again. "That's exactly what you said last night, too."

 

"I should _never_ have presumed to-"

 

"You tried to deny it, at first," she interrupted. "At least until I admitted that I had been purposely provoking you ever since hearing it."

 

He leaned against the wall, resting his exhausted body. Running a tongue over his lips, he watched attentively as Daenerys pulled on her smallclothes.

 

"But why?"

 

"Have you ever stood before a mirror, Jon Snow?" she asked, locking eyes with him as she slipped back into her trousers.

 

Nervously, he pushed the hair from his eyes as he shrugged. For years, men both at the Wall and beyond it had referred to him as _pretty—_ but he always took it as a means of emasculation. However hard it was to believe, Jon _had_ noticed that the queen had given him almost as many fascinated looks as he'd given her—he just figured it was on account of his stupid mouth, rather than an attraction for him.

 

"Let's get you a proper meal."

 

Jon flushed as he nodded, dreamily gazing as she pulled her boots on, one after the other. Finally closing the distance between them, she smoothed a palm down Jon's back as she pulled him into her arms. "Though I am half- tempted to take you prisoner again," she purred.

 

" _Really?_ " he eagerly asked. "What for?"

 

Her hand slipped further, giving one of his cheeks a pinch. Jon jumped, both from shock as well as the sudden pressure against the spots she's slapped sore.

 

"For smuggling _this_ into my castle," she gave it another squeeze as if to warn him of the punishment that might be in store for him if he disobeyed her orders again. But he didn't need the reminder. He knew now that he was hers to do with as she pleased for however long she'd have him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ... _*facepalms*_
> 
>  **Notes:** For the Dothraki translation, literally one translator out there gave me actual Dothraki words. If it's wrong, feel free to correct me (with sources).
> 
> And yes, to any loyal readers of my multi-chapters out there, I will be focusing my attention back onto those after my brain gets a bit of a rest from all this damned writing.
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!


End file.
